To the Olympics!
by Joyeee
Summary: Based on a long-ago challenge from CoralDawn. Summer 340 BC: Alexander and Hephaestion attend the Olympics! While exploring new places, meeting new people, facing cultural clashes and getting into a fistfight or two, friendship deepens into something more
1. A Long Awaited Holiday

A long, long time ago, **CoralDawn** posted a challenge: to write a story based on the following line from the _Alexander Romance_: _And one day when Alexander was 15 years old . . . sailing with Hephaistion, his friend, he easily reached Pisa, and went off to stroll with Hephaestion. _

These would be the Olympics of 340 BC - the same year that Philip went off to war and left Alexander as Regent.

Another line linking Alexander with Olympics is from Plutarch's "Sayings of Alexander": _Being nimble and swift of foot, he was urged by his father to run in the foot-race at the Olympics. "I would run," said he, "if I were to have kings as competitors."_

Anyway, this is what I came up with. The chapters are much shorter than my other stories' - it's more episodic - but like Showtime, it's a "young adult"-level sort of story, not meant to be Serious.

**Thanks**: to Coral for posting the challenge and prodding me to answer it. If by some chance you see this and have any further suggestions/comments, please let me know!

**Chapter 1: A Long-Awaited Holiday**

The final lesson was, of course, an exercise in futility. In the midst of the tranquil little garden, Aristotle's pupils seemed all the more impatient, like kettles with limbs, bubbling away, about to boil over.

Aristotle suppressed a sigh of exasperation. The supremacy of the mind was a common theme in his teachings, and today's lesson was but a corollary to it: that since the mind cannot imagine infinity, space must be limited. It should not have been such a difficult lesson, neither for him to teach nor for the young men to learn. Only Alexander sat still, but Aristotle discerned that even the prince was not really listening.

If any of his students might yet pay attention to the lecture today, it was Alexander – though, of course, Aristotle had never expected him to embrace the concept itself. Limits were something the prince had yet to truly grasp. But Aristotle had anticipated countering arguments or brash, amused little smiles – not this brooding preoccupation, as if he were lecturing about Alexander's _personal_ limits instead of the limits of space.

Well, space was not the only thing that was limited. Patience, for example, was a highly limited commodity.

Right in the middle of a key phrase, Aristotle stopped lecturing. It was difficult enough to make these young men, especially Alexander, understand limits of any sort on the cloudiest, gloomiest, and rainiest of miserable mornings. Never mind now, with the sky so brilliantly blue and freedom just a turn of the sun-dial away.

"Perhaps we can continue this discussion later," he conceded dryly to his fidgeting students. "After all, you'll be in a much more appropriate state of mind to discuss limits, I think, when you return at the _end_ of your leave."

Instantly the youths sprang up. Cheering, laughing, and caring nothing for Aristotle's hint that even their fiercely coveted holiday had its limits, they shouted their thanks and tumbled hastily out the gate.

Aristotle chuckled. He was looking forward to the holiday also. With his pupils, he had to focus on matters that would mold the future leaders of Macedon: history, politics, rhetoric, philosophy. In the coming weeks, he could pursue other interests. Why, after seeing his students off tomorrow, he might even start working on a classification system for all the specimens of flora that they had gathered for him. In addition to complementing their studies, the botany searches gave Aristotle very welcome (though brief) interludes of calm, and he was only too happy to send them on more such assignments. However, now the room next to his study was cluttered with dried plants, a towering shambles as disorderly as any wrought by the goddess Chaos, demanding his attention with every flaking branch and crinkling leaf. Besides, if he did not clear the space soon, where was he supposed to keep all the specimens he planned to collect over summer?

As usual, Alexander and Hephaestion were the last to leave, just now slipping out the gate, calling out their wishes for his good health. Aristotle nodded back affectionately – and with satisfaction. Alexander did not seem nearly as excited as his peers about the holiday, but he no longer looked quite so gloomy. And Hephaestion was with him, outwardly unperturbed by Alexander's downcast mood.

Aristotle headed back toward the building, wryly shaking his head. In regards to limits, those two were the worst.

Hephaestion was quite possibly Aristotle's quietest pupil, rarely volunteered answers and took a good long while to consider things. Yet within a few months Aristotle had discovered that he was exceptionally observant, able to soak everything in. Given time, he could link different concepts in ways that none of the other boys could – or cared to – and his conclusions were truly his own.

As for Alexander, Aristotle had never dreamed of a pupil so brilliant, with such an extraordinary capacity to take everything in at once. Quick to understand, eager to learn, Alexander was never afraid to speak his mind – or to ask questions, questions that were pointed and complex and sometimes odd, but which often revealed perspectives that even Aristotle had not considered deeply. And he seemed born to the art of strategy, possessing intuition that could never be taught in any lecture.

Moreover, in matters of philosophy, history, and science, both Alexander and Hephaestion went far beyond anything Aristotle had ever hoped for in a bunch of wild boys raised in the rocky northern hills of Macedon. Indeed, his students could be loud, unruly, too fond of drink and too quick to scorn the rest of Hellas, but Aristotle was much more impressed with his young students than he had expected to be – the brothers Erygius and Laomedon, and Alexander's cousins Leonnatus and Perdiccas, already showing early flairs for command; Cassander, who knew backwards and forwards the lineages of Macedon's powerful families and could tell you the political ramifications of every marriage within the last hundred years. Nearchus with his fascination in seafaring, an interest that surely would come in handy as Macedon expanded its reach; and Ptolemy, who was not only clever and ambitious, but wily enough to hide it from the others, never striving to do better than his fellows – at least, not in front of them.

Their growing abilities were both a comfort and a warning to Aristotle – a comfort, because he had come here at Philip's request only after losing the leadership of his teacher's Academy in Athens to Speusippus. (Really, Aristotle had to wonder how much Plato's decision was influenced by the fact that Speusippus was his nephew!) And a warning – because their potential made Aristotle think, even now, of young lions crouching hidden amid tall grasses.

But perhaps Aristotle's fondest memory so far of his time in Mieza was that first day when the class's discussion had boiled down to a debate between just Alexander and Hepahestion. The few who tried to follow along gave up quickly, while most of them just lounged about, amused by the earnestness of the pair. Yet Aristotle's initial irritation at having the session commandeered by only two students soon gave way to delight. He was not sure who had started it or which had happened first – whether Alexander had drawn Hephaestion out of his usual reserve, or Hephaestion had persuaded Alexander to consider the topic anew, from a different angle. It was as if they were holding their own little symposium discussion, and Aristotle could not have wished for better from his pupils. (Except, of course, if _all_ of them would participate like that – but again, there were limits to what was possible in the world.)

And that had happened when Alexander and Hephaestion _disagreed_, when they were merely fellow students. Now that they had become friends, whenever their thoughts coincided it was even more uncanny; what they could not solve individually, they never failed to conquer once they pooled their abilities. There might – there _should_ – be limits to what those two could do, but as yet, Aristotle had not seen any.

And he was not sure he wanted to.

He stepped into his study, eyeing the towering mess of shrubs in the adjoining room, and smiled. He had been right to let the boys go early. All those plants needed classification, and that lecture on limits could definitely wait.

_to be continued_

_As always, feedback is cherished!_


	2. Pella's Noble Sons

**A/N**: Just want to reemphasize that this is a more episodic story, so the storyline will wander about a bit, and characters may appear for just one or two chapters. But anyone familiar with this fandom can probably guess which two will stay onstage throughout! :)

* * *

**Chapter 2: Pella's Noble Sons**

While Aristotle was delicately extracting the first plant from the wildly tangled heap in his antechamber, his students were winding their way along the neat walkways of Mieza toward the stables. As they turned a corner, Cassander shaded his eyes against the noonday sun and frowned. "A ride to the orchard's just fine, but it's a pity that half the day is gone already. I suppose there's no point in starting out toward Pella today instead of tomorrow."

Nearchus shook his head. "Even Alexander's Ox-head would take from sunup to sundown to get back, I wager."

Harpalus opened his eyes wide with an air of mock suspicion. "If I'm not mistaken, Cassander . . . you're quite eager to get going!"

"Cassander? Eager to travel?" Chuckling, Ptolemy clapped him on the shoulder. "What next, a Southerner who can hold his drink?"

Cassander shook off Ptolemy's hand with an exasperated grin. "You're just as anxious to get going as I am! Weren't you already packing a week ago?"

"True." Ptolemy did not look the least bit troubled by Cassander's revelation; instead a mischievous smile flashed across his face. "But I think Perdiccas has us all beat; he had a gift ready for a certain special someone back home a whole _fortnight_ ago!"

The next moment Ptolemy had to duck as Perdiccas' fist came hurtling his way, but there was no malice in the blow and Perdiccas was grinning as he replied, "My welcome will be that much warmer than yours, won't it?"

A chorus of wolf whistles answered _that_, but the group never broke stride even as Ptolemy and Perdiccas began darting in and out among the others, chasing each other around. Erygius let out a long whistle. "Seems Cassander's not the only one who's eager to get back to Pella –"

"I know _I_ am," Alexander declared suddenly from the back of the group, halting everyone else in their tracks. It was not every day that Alexander and Cassander could agree on something.

Meeting their stares, Alexander blinked, as if shaking off a daydream. "Well, Mieza is . . . um, _pretty_ . . . and we're learning a lot here . . . but after all . . ." His hands clenched, his tense silence throughout the day flaring suddenly into obvious frustration, but he said no more and finally turned his gaze away.

Alexander might be the king's son, but even those who had not known him well before Mieza had recognized long ago that Alexander did not – would not – take advantage of his royal blood to lord it over others or vent his temper on blameless bystanders. Therefore, the looks they now exchanged were puzzled, curious, but not overly anxious. Perdiccas and Nearchus glanced questioningly at Hephaestion, but upon catching their gazes he shrugged; he was just as perplexed as everyone else.

"Well, after all . . ." Cassander cast Alexander a final wary look, then slowly, prudently decided to carry on the conversation as if nothing had happened. "Why shouldn't we be eager to return? We grew up in what is now the capital of Macedon!"

"True," Ptolemy sighed. "There's not much here by comparison. Just a handful of cottages . . ."

"Mieza's not just a handful of cottages," Hephaestion spoke up. His expression was quite serious, but his eyes held a merry glint. "There are . . . trees. Many, many trees."

Perdiccas grinned, catching right away on to the jest. "Trees galore! And haven't you noticed all the grass around us?"

Suddenly raising one hand in a gesture eerily reminiscent of their teacher, Laomedon intoned with exaggerated gravity, "Tall grass, short grass, broad-stemmed and thin-stemmed, dark green and light green with fifteen different shades of green in between!" Over the loud, appreciative laughter of his fellow students (all of whom had been prompted during one lecture or another to classify simple things like grass into dozens of categories), he finished with a flourish, "What do you mean, 'there's not much in Mieza?'"

"There's _too_ much of one thing – insects!" Nearchus muttered, flicking away a particularly large beetle buzzing noisily around his head. "First thing when I get back, I'm going to the best bath-house in the city! I don't remember this many insects in Pella even at the height of summer!"

"Exactly," Cassander agreed. "It'll be nice to be back in civilization for a change."

"Now you sound like a Southerner," Erygius jibed, then flung an arm dramatically across his forehead. "A dandy plucked up by the roots from the warm, sunny shores of the Aegean and thrown mercilessly into the wild hills of the north!"

"You know I don't mean it that way," Cassander retorted. "But here we've been burying our heads in old theories and ancient philosophies – we don't even really know what's _happening_ in the world anymore!"

At that, Alexander stiffened again, but the motion was small enough that most of the others took no notice, and the conversation continued this time without skipping a beat. "Mieza _is_ supposed to be a shrine," Perdiccas smiled. "Did you expect more than cottages, and trees and insects?"

"_I_ did!" protested Harpalus. "It's a shrine to _nymphs_. Speaking of which, once we're back in Pella the first place I'm going is . . ."

On a sun-warmed haystack, a dozing cat started awake as a chorus of bawdy laughter erupted from the nearby stables. It raised its head to cast a disapproving stare at the young men who had so noisily interrupted its slumber, but only long enough to watch them thunder out of the stables on their horses. As soon as they galloped off, leaving the stableyard sunny and peaceful again, it turned its other side to the sun and settled back down to its nap.

* * *

The ride to the orchard was too short to burn off their restlessness. Once there, they soon began parading around, daring each other to various tricks of horsemanship.

Alexander held back, not compelling his stallion to perform anything. "You're spoiling him!" Ptolemy cried from afar, having just jumped his horse over a high clump of hedges; Bucephalus answered with a contemptuous snort. But Alexander only gave a half-hearted smile.

Sensing that now was not the time to bait Alexander, the others moved on in their efforts, concentrating especially on Hephaestion, who, when coaxed and wheedled and badgered enough, could be counted on to dare (and accomplish!) some pretty eye-opening stunts. Hephaestion grinned at some of their ideas, but before they could prevail on him Leonnatus' stomach growled loudly. Over the laughter, Leonnatus reminded them all with mock indignation that they had not gotten any lunch, rushing so summarily by the kitchens on the way from class. The others agreed, and they thought up a challenge for Hephaestion that would serve several purposes at once: to pick a small basketful of apricots while following a very precise, very twisty course between the trees of the orchard.

At this, Alexander seemed to rouse himself a bit. "You'll have to ride at a canter at least, of course," he put in with a shadow of a smile.

"Of course!" Harpalus agreed cheerily. Despite one lame leg which prevented him from learning all the fighting that the others did, he was familiar enough with their exercises, and continued, "Simple enough for all of you to hack things up while you're riding, anyway. But apricots bruise easily, so _this_ will require some finesse!"

"Hephaestion could canter through with his eyes closed. And look how many apricots there are; even if he doesn't try to pick any they'll be raining down on him!" Perdiccas snorted, rousing a round of laughter as Hephaestion rolled his eyes at the obvious exaggeration. "Throw in another condition!"

Laomedon glanced around. "Look! The flowers, the ones Aristotle said were brought from Egypt long ago –"

"Lilies of the Nile," Ptolemy put in.

"Right. The tallest reach above a horse's flank, see? So it shouldn't be too difficult to gather some of them as well."

Erygius caught on immediately to his brother's scheme. "Brilliant!" he exclaimed. "You'll have to lean down to pick the flowers, and reach up to get the apricots! And by the end you won't have either hand free for reins!"

"I was going to suggest something like a jump over the tallest stalks, with an armful of apricots." Laomedon gave his brother's shoulder a light punch. "But _picking_ flowers as well as apricots? Aren't we a little demanding today?"

Leonnatus' stomach growled again, and he clutched it in mock despair. "Have pity on a poor starving soul!"

Alexander's smile grew as he gave Leonnatus' broad shoulders a squeeze, reminding everyone that it was no ill-nourished wretch who had thrown them all so many times on the wrestling grounds, and by the time he looked toward Hephaestion his usual spirits seemed to have returned. "For a poor starving soul's sake, Hephaestion . . ."

Hephaestion said nothing. But he met Alexander's gaze, and his smile, slight though it was, was enough to answer Alexander's challenge – so utterly confident that it was all but a challenge in itself.

Though the look was directed at Alexander, the boys all knew precisely what it meant: their challenge was accepted. With a few twigs and a folded cloak, they fashioned a rough imitation of a basket. Hephaestion eyed it with a skeptical grin, but accepted it as easily as he had the challenge itself.

Ten minutes later, they cheered and crowded round as Hephaestion galloped back. Laughing, he handed down the armful of flowers so as to have both hands for the makeshift basket, but despite his care it nearly collapsed in on itself from the weight of the fruit. Fortunately the others were crowding up, eager to help unload the goods, and the implosion of the basket was not the minor disaster (the bruising of all those apricots!) it might have been.

The Nile lilies, white and rose and royal purple, made fine adornments for the manes of their steeds. Letting the stallions off to graze for themselves, the boys settled back. For the rest of the afternoon they lounged blissfully in the bright little clearing, chatting, dozing, daydreaming, reclining there on their cloaks as comfortably as on palace couches.

Alexander soon withdrew into himself again, leaning back on his hands as he sat staring into the distance, never quite unwinding. But the others knew better than to pry. And besides, they saw no need to bother themselves, for Hephaestion was lying there on the grass next to Alexander. With his hands clasped comfortably as a pillow under his head, he appeared quite unaware of Alexander's fingers tapping irregularly, restlessly, almost close enough to brush his arm, and in the dappled light he even seemed half-asleep. Yet on the few occasions that Alexander spoke, he always answered. And whatever his answers were, the crease in Alexander's brow always smoothed out after, if only for a few moments.

The scents of the orchard permeated the sun-warmed air. The shade of the trees and the light of the sun mingled, bathing the grove in a soft, pleasant light. And the apricots glowed like golden baubles in the youths' hands as they spoke of this and that, making and remaking their plans for the coming holiday, each grander and more exciting than the last.

The next evening, Pella welcomed home the sons of some of its most illustrious families. Despite (or perhaps because of) months on end sequestered away in the stately gardens of Mieza under the disciplined tutelage of one of the finest philosophic minds in all of Hellas, the young men descended on the city with all the spirit and force of a crazed whirlwind blasting down from the highest peak of Olympus.

However, there was one exception to the general excitement. And that exception was the scion of the most illustrious Macedonian family of them all – Alexander, son of Philip _Basileus_.

_to be continued_


	3. Home

**A/N**: Laying groundwork here; Alexander and Hephaestion will star in the next chapter, I promise! Also, if I got any historical details/perspectives wrong please feel free to point out.

**Chapter 3: Home **

Pella was just as Cleocritus had expected.

Each morning waking here, he felt certain that even Sisyphus, ever rolling the stone up the mountain, could not be more miserably bored than he was among these craggy hills. Blessed Athene, how in the world had he not already wasted away of dullness during this fortnight in Pella? It was a joke to even compare this place to the teeming, bustling city-state that was his home. Small, simple, _crude_; Pella remained rocky and rough despite painfully obvious efforts spent on the gardens, palace, and marketplace. And if this was the capital of Macedon, Cleocritus shuddered to think of the rustic wastelands that must lie beyond Pella's walls.

He had never expected to miss home; just a few weeks ago he would have dismissed such thoughts as womanly sentiments, unworthy of a man. But in Athens, there was a festival nearly every other day; in Athens, one could visit a different gymnasium every day of the week; in Athens, one could find orators, philosophers, men of influence and power around every corner. In the shops lining the streets, craftsmen turned out wares of the highest quality, including the best pottery in all of Hellas. Silver poured in from the coastal colonies; the port of Piraeus was but a few hours' brisk stroll away, offering quick access to any place of importance in all of Attica.

Cleocritus knew the strengths of Athens well, her history, her culture, her power and influence – greater than Sparta's, though every Spartan citizen devoted his life to the army; greater than Thebes', despite her great generals and Sacred Band. Athens had more than military might; she had culture, philosophy, arts, and a democratic government, and Cleocritus was proud of such a city-state.

If he considered his situation more deeply, he might even admit to pride at his inclusion in the current Athenian delegation to Macedon. At last, he had been deemed ready to assume his duty as an envoy, and this was his first assignment. Understandably, he was under the supervision of his elders – but they were some of the most respected Athenian delegates. And of course, since Philip of Macedon was blustering his way through Attica (why, to hear Demosthenes talk, it would be the end of civilization as they knew it!) Athens was sending its best to deal with Macedon these days.

Not that Pella should even be mentioned in the same breath as Athens. But if Macedon had nothing else, it had brute force, force which Philip had used to gain riches, and with the riches came the money for bribery, the means to buy power, prestige, and the cooperation of other city-states. But quality, character . . . Cleocritus frowned into his half-empty cup. These could never be bought.

As he sat now in Philip's antechamber, sipping wine and listening to his fellow delegates wrangle some final details with the monarch himself, Cleocritus could not help a sullen silence. He had sworn by the shield of Athene that he would prove himself as a delegate, that he would help make Macedon heed Athens and turn the game around, back to what it should be, back to what it was before this one-eyed commander of a few rough hillside tribes had somehow gained influence over a city-state that was far better than any he could ever dream to build. It was bad enough that Cleocritus' own father had helped Aeschines, the orator most opposed to Demosthenes; even worse still that Aeschines was a kinsman of Philocrates, head of a delegation eight years ago which had negotiated the "peace" which gave Amphipolis to Macedon, opening the road for Philip to conquer Thrace.

Demosthenes had also been part of that delegation, but as he asserted so often during his public talks about the threat of Philip, he had no way of preventing his colleagues from giving up Amphipolis. Cleocritus was determined to carve a path for himself away from his father's, back toward Athenian dominance, Athenian glory.

But he had to get back to Athens first. And next time, he would know to bring along more items to keep him from losing his mind here. Perhaps he would even finally get around to reading those old treaties he had skipped in school, unbeknownst to his pedagogue.

Just then, a messenger entered and spoke a few words in the king's ear. Philip blinked. He seemed pleased – no, that was too strong a word. But nevertheless, he had smiled, which was rare enough.

"My son has just arrived back home from his studies, and will join us here shortly. Forgive a father," Philip grinned, his manner entirely too collected to be a mere father welcoming his son home. "But I think perhaps you gentlemen would not mind a short reunion between us?"

Already tall tales about Philip's son abounded all over Hellas – stories about a horse, and a tyrannical childhood teacher, and some ridiculous tall tale about Artemis leaving her temple unprotected to attend his birth. And there was the fact that Aristotle – a wily sort, clever enough to have been second in line to inherit Plato's Academy – was teaching him now. Politely hiding their curiosity with affable smiles, the delegates assented.

Cleocritus absently swirled his cup, his thoughts already focused far away, back in Athens with his favorite girl at a nice, civilized dinner party, with proper fish and fowl, and wine much sweeter and finer than the absolute swill they quaffed around here . . .

"Alexander!" Philip smiled. "Welcome home."

Rather than turning their attention immediately toward the door, the more experienced delegates kept their eyes on Philip; still, only the most observant among them noted that although the king's gaze never lost its shrewd, appraising gleam, there was a flash of something warmer, as a youth entered the room in answer to his greeting. Cleocritus' attention, however, was entirely captured by the youth; he froze with his cup halfway to his lips, and was rather chagrined to realize, however distantly, that the abrupt halt had caused the wine to spill on his pristine robes.

So then, according to the rumors, this was Philip's son – the student of Aristotle, the tamer of a stallion priced at a whopping thirteen talents. Cleocritus could not help staring as the youth advanced through the room, greeting the guests with proper, but very _princely_, courtesy. His voice was rather high, but the calm self-assurance in his tone more than made up for that, and the accent of his Greek was barely noticeable. He was not overly tall or large, but his physique was enough to make one believe all those stories about Spartan training. Red-gold curls, bearing that seemed to vibrate with energy; and such determination in those luminous grey eyes . . .

Cleocritus shook his head, wondering yet again at the strength of Macedonian drink.

On the spot, he decided that he disliked Alexander as much as anything and anyone else in this misbegotten place.

After all, who was this boy, who did not even look old enough to participate in proper games at the paestra, to walk in like he owned the room and everyone in it? Just another example – perhaps the epitomy! – of Macedon's overweening arrogance in trying to vie with Athens! Gods be praised, in a few hours, right after this accursed little talk with Philip, the delegation would be departing, heading for the nearest port and sailing for home!

_to be continued_


	4. The Games of Kings

**A/N**: Woe, school has taken all the steam out of my writing engine! (And that heavy-handed metaphor is proof in itself!) Sorry for the lapse. Hope people can enjoy this chapter anyway.

Entering the Games in ancient Greece did not always mean personal participation. For example, Philip won the chariot race around the time of Alexander's birth because he entered the victorious team of horses (and driver); as many Alexander readers know, he was miles away on campaign and news of the victory was brought to him.

Yes, I have Hephaestion's horse named Pegasus here, just like in "Showtime!". Readers can link the two stories (or not) - whatever you like!

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**Chapter 4: The Games of Kings**

Considering that they had just returned home, reunited with family, and started off a holiday, Hephaestion was not surprised in the least when Alexander stormed into the stables on their second afternoon back in Pella, dark as a thundercloud about to burst.

He fell in step easily beside Alexander as the latter stalked toward Bucephalus' stall, where the stallion, sensing his master's distress, was already snorting and stamping the ground. Patting Bucephalus' neck distractedly, Alexander began to prepare for the ride they had planned, but he got no farther than shaking out the saddlecloth with an angry snap before throwing the cloth back down and turning to Hephaestion.

His every action signaled anger, just barely suppressed. Only his eyes betrayed a flicker of uncertainty.

"I've been a fool, Hephaestion."

For a moment, Hephaestion just returned Alexander's gaze. In the next stall, his own stallion, Pegasus, had picked up the tension just as Bucephalus had and snorted softly, nudging Hephaestion's back, as if asking him to fix everything. Hephaestion patted Pegasus' nose, then reached for the forgotten saddlecloth, shook it clean again, and draped it over Bucephalus.

Alexander began pacing. This was a more familiar sight to Bucephalus than Alexander's outright turmoil when entering the stables, and so the stallion calmed. Hephaestion busied himself getting a fresh helping of oats for both horses from the stores in the stable corner.

Finally Alexander spoke, his voice very low. "I . . . haven't been pleasant company, these past few days."

From Alexander, that sounded too much like an apology for Hephaestion's liking. He shrugged as he finished pouring the oats, replying lightly, wryly, "Not your usual sunny self, no."

A half-hearted smile flashed across Alexander's lips, but his pacing never ceased. "I hope your homecoming was better than mine."

"I daresay it was," Hephaestion said simply. The thought of offering a sympathetic look or a few placating words did not even occur to him; this was just the truth. Then he smiled, seeing the horses' reaction - or rather, lack thereof - to his offer of a snack; in the wake of Alexander's distress, Pegasus paid no attention to the oats until Hephaestion himself offered a handful, and Bucephalus was completely ignoring the treat, snorting softly, trying to catch Alexander's attention. "After all, I'm not the one stomping around the stables and riling up my stallion."

Alexander's footsteps fell ever heavier. At last Hephaestion prompted quietly, "How was it?"

Alexander shook his head. "For a visit with Mother . . . It went well, all things considered. She seemed . . . pleased." Though Alexander's voice trailed on the last word, Hephaestion carefully kept his expression neutral until Alexander continued. "Then, I spoke with my father last night."

To Hephaestion, it went without saying that Alexander's recent gloom related somehow to one, or both, of his parents. It went without saying that of all of the Mieza students, Alexander was the most anxious to show his parents – especially his father – how he had matured, how much wiser and better he had become. It went without saying that Alexander had been reigning in all these tensions, since before they returned, since before Ptolemy started packing, since before Perdiccas even thought of bringing home a gift for his sweetheart. So he listened quietly as Alexander finally began to talk.

"He was holding an informal supper – Parmenion and Antipater were there, and a whole cadre of other officers. And foreign ambassadors, quite a few of them! At first they were talking politics; somehow they chatted their way to Aristotle; Father asked me a few questions about Mieza, what sort of things we're learning there, how we're all getting on, Aristotle's methods and so forth." Hephaestion patted Bucephalus' flank – the stallion was getting restless again as Alexander kept pacing. "But not a word about his plans to move against Byzantion and Perinthus sometime later this year. You must understand, Hephaestion – I thought, perhaps, he might want me to participate in the campaign – that perhaps that was why we were called back, really. Why else would we have such a long holiday in the middle of our studies? But all we talked about was Aristotle!" Alexander's voice rose indignantly. "And then, just as we started getting back to the politics, he interrupted, turning the conversation to the – to the _Olympic Games_!" Alexander took a deep breath. "He suggested – he suggested _I_ go participate in the Games!"

Bucephalus prodded Alexander's side, snorting in sympathetic frustration. Alexander stroked the stallion's mane, but that edge of injured disappointment rang sharper than ever in his voice. "'Nimble and swift of foot,' he said. 'You'd win the foot-race for sure,' he said."

"And _you_ said . . . ?" Hephaestion asked after a pause, sensing by Alexander's low, tight tone that he was coming to the crux of the matter.

"I . . . " Alexander put his balled-up hands to his head and let out a despondent groan. "I said: 'Yes, I would run – if I were to have kings as competitors.'"

Hephaestion knit his brow; so Alexander had let his emotions get the better of him during a diplomatic meeting. For all his reputation as a battle commander, Philip was equally a master of negotiation and manipulation, and would not have been pleased; moreover, he would have been decidedly _un_impressed. No wonder Alexander was so upset.

Alexander continued talking, faster now, as if a dam had broken. "It's not that I'd mind going, of course. He even said he had a ship ready at our nearest harbor on the Aegean, all fitted out for me. But sending me to the Games? When he's planning a war?" His voice rose again; he returned to pacing. "What are we learning about old battles for, anyway? If he's going to go off and conquer other kingdoms without me –" Defiance flashed in his eyes. "I might as well insist that I race against no one less than a king!"

At this, an image abruptly came to Hephaestion's mind: the men at court – not those closest to Philip, but older advisors and lower-ranking nobles – when Philip first revealed that he did indeed intend to unite all Hellas under his rule: stunned silence, then wild uproar, protests as vehement and scandalized as if Philip had just announced that he would marry a Persian princess. "You said that right there, out loud, in front of all those advisors and delegations – didn't you?" Hephaestion asked, already knowing the answer and struggling to suppress the laughter bubbling in his throat.

Alexander nodded, and not entirely with repentance – defiance still flashed in his eyes. Hephaestion allowed a lopsided smile at this; Alexander's rebellious streak remained quite undamaged. "So how did he take your response?"

Alexander's eyes darkened. "He gave me a look – I couldn't quite read it. It was . . . distant." His voice dropped low in defeat. "I wanted to impress him – after _two years_ away at school it shouldn't be so difficult; we've learned so much and discussed so many things. And now –" He shook his head.

"Now you've said something that sounds arrogant and childish," Hephaestion surmised, "when all you really meant was that you couldn't compete fairly."

"Exactly," Alexander fervently nodded. "I couldn't compete, because everyone else would _let_ me win! There's no glory in _that_! On the battlefield, there wouldn't be such lenience from one's opponents! Commanders in war do not hold back!"

Suddenly his eyes widened, and a look of utter dismay twisted his features.

"What?" asked Hephaestion.

"I . . ." Alexander clapped a hand over his mouth. "I just realized . . . I mean, there were delegates there . . . from _Athens_ . . ."

"Athens?" Hephaestion frowned; opposition to Philip and to Macedon ran strongest in that city-state, downright vicious what with Demosthenes' harangues –

"Yes, Athens," Alexander repeated. "And Perinthus being where it is –"

"The port through which Athens gets all her grains," Hephaestion mused breathlessly.

"Exactly!" Alexander groaned. "Of _course_ Father wouldn't want to talk about the campaign in front of them!"

"Well . . ." Hephaestion tried to think of something, anything, positive to say. "You didn't mention anything regarding your father's plans, right?" When Alexander did not reply, he ducked his head lower so as to be able to see Alexander's face. ". . . Right?"

Alexander nodded miserably. "Right, I didn't," he muttered. "But with that outburst . . ." He put his head in his hands. "I'm not getting a command anytime soon, that's as certain as Olympus is high!"

Heaving a sigh, he folded to sit against the stall. Hephaestion gave Bucephalus a last pat and sank down beside Alexander on the rushes.

They stayed that way for a long time, Alexander staring morosely at the floor, Hephaestion glancing over at him every now and then. Obviously there would be no ride anymore today, but Bucephalus sensed his master's mood and remained quiet, munching half-heartedly on the oats, nudging Alexander's shoulder gently from time to time.

Finally, though, Hephaestion stood up, stretching long limbs. "Well, you may not have won your first command. Yet. But you can still attend the Olympics."

Alexander frowned. "And compete, when all those people heard me expressly declare I'd never do it?"

"You didn't declare that. Not exactly," Hephaestion said, and suddenly grinned. "All you have to do is find a king or two willing to leave off all their negotiations and public appearances there, just long enough for a little competition with you."

Alexander seemed even more dejected. But then, he slowly raised his head, his grimace replaced by a pensive look.

Hephaestion was not sure what that look meant, but he continued lightly, "Even if there aren't kings, there will be other men of importance there. At the Games you could run into all sorts of people, I wager; not just athletes, but statesmen, too . . . And," he pointed out quietly, "it's not so rare for Kings to enter the competitions."

"Right," Alexander murmured. "My father holds three Olympic titles."

Now Alexander was staring straight ahead, seeing something far beyond these stable stalls.

He would come to a conclusion himself, no matter what anyone else said, so Hephaestion spoke on freely, an unconscious smile forming on his lips as he imagined what the renowned Olympics might be like. "You'll see the best athletes in all of Hellas competing . . . Who knows, you might even meet some famous winners from past Games! I heard they're awarded free meals for the rest of their lives in their hometowns, but some of them love their sport so much they enter again. Have you heard of Milo of Croton? My father told me once about him; he was a wrestling champion. He entered – and won – six times! That makes twenty-four years he held the title!"

Alexander nodded absently.

"And I'm sure there will be lots of traders there just for the event; you'll be sure to see things we haven't even heard of, from places even Aristotle might not know about! Ptolemy and Perdiccas will be pestering you for days to tell them all about it! Besides –"

At Hephaestion's sudden pause, Alexander finally pulled out of his reverie and looked up.

"Besides, you don't have to compete," Hephaestion concluded. At Alexander's blank stare, Hephaestion allowed a slow, small smile. "Just go and have some fun! There's no harm in that, is there?"

Alexander was looking at him very seriously, eyes wide and luminous in the setting sun. Hephaestion turned away before his smile could betray any sympathy, reaching instead for Bucephalus' saddlecloth.

As he was folding it back up, he suddenly he realized that, from another perspective, he had just suggested that Alexander spend the summer _away_ from the rest of them, and with that realization came an unexpected twinge of something strange. He found himself wishing, quite unreasonably, that he had not said anything at all.

Pegasus sensed this disturbance that even Hephaestion himself could not understand, whickered questioningly, and nudged his shoulder. Blinking at his lapse, Hephaestion gave the stallion a small, distracted smile, shook his head to clear it, and reconsidered the journey, with one of Aristotle's favorite things in the world - logic.

Going to the Olympics would hardly relieve Alexander's misgivings about his standing with his father. Still, Hephaestion thought it was probably better for Alexander to take Philip's offer after all – perhaps Philip wanted to send Alexander as a representative of sorts? It was not war, it was not exactly a diplomatic mission, but Alexander was sure to meet many leaders at the Olympics, not only in politics but in all fields of science and art.

Even if he went as just another visitor, at the very least, it would give Alexander something else to think about. Between his mother, his father, and the pressures of being, in all likelihood, the heir to the throne (not to mention all the pressure Alexander insisted on adding for himself!), Hephaestion was sure that if he were in Alexander's place, he would have gone quite mad long ago. This was supposed to be a holiday, after all!

Alexander's somber, pondering expression told Hephaestion that he was about to give the Olympics a chance, and for that much, Hephaestion was satisfied.

Still, Alexander was never one to merely take other people's suggestions. When he finally spoke, his words caught Hephaestion completely off guard. "Would . . . would you like to go, too?"

* * *

_I don't know, the conversation between them doesn't flow quite as I would like. Feedback/concrit/etc. is always welcome. (and might help get me some "flow" back too!)_


End file.
